


Take a Bow

by emiv



Category: Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Blackgate Prison, Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiv/pseuds/emiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s already had his big show. The only thing left is the encore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Bow

The drugs they pump into him morning and night keep the smiling beast down. Shiny poppy-red pills and little yellow vials. They mix it in his food, stick it in his veins. Drugs that keep everything fun tucked away inside his head, nice and neat and _boring_. They deaden him from the inside. He hasn’t cracked a smile in three years.

He hasn’t spoken in longer.

It doesn't matter; he doesn’t have much to say these days. He’s already had his big show. The only thing left is the encore.

And today’s the day.

His guards, the precious things, fix him up all presentable like it’s his birthday: legs bound, waist tied. He even gets a crispy white straight jacket, just for the occasion. It smells like new.

_Aw, fellas, you shouldn’t have._

He’s tethered upright to his gurney, nice and tight. No vanishing acts today. That’s OK; they were never his strong suit. He wishes his hands were free though; he misses the feel of his cards, their rough edges against his fingertips.

_Pick a card, any card._

_Jokers’ wild, naturally._  
  
They wheel him into an armored truck, one packed with more guards in clean, pressed uniforms. They smell of aftershave and starch and self-righteousness. Pushed up against the walls of the truck, they stay back as far as they can, with hard faces but anxious eyes.

Nice to know he still had that effect.

The truck is bound for Blackgate. He’s not surprised.

They don’t perform executions at Arkham, you see.

The criminally insane don’t typically get death row.

He figures he’s special.

It’s fitting; he’s always felt that way. _Special._

At Blackgate, they wheel him into a sterile little room, bright and white and not at all his style, one wall made of glass, a curtain drawn over it.

His final stage.

He wishes he had his face paint. He feels naked without it. Incomplete.

No matter. The show must go on.

Raise the curtain. Queue the lights.

The curtain is pulled back, exposing the room on the other side. He eyes the group, hears the murmur of voices behind the glass. All the usual suspects are in attendance. The mayor. The commissioner. The warden. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. All here for the show. Pity there won’t be much of one. He used to love a captive audience.

_Step right up, folks. Don’t be shy._

The guards and medical staff buzz around him, but he’s looking out at his fans. And it looks like a tough room. Serious people with serious faces. He is not sure why.

It’s not like _they’re_ the ones dying here. 

He looks over the bodies, tallies them up.

_Normal, normal, boring._

His eyes settle on a tall man toward the back, leaning against a cane. The odd man out. He sizes him up out of habit. He’s a big guy, broad shouldered. Snappy dresser. Fancy hair. Old money, obviously. Boy, does this man reek of money; he can almost smell it through the glass. The face is familiar too.

Ah, that’s it. Bruce Wayne. The pompous-ass prince of Gotham. Now what the hell is he doing here?

Surely _he_ can afford better entertainment.

Then again, this is the hottest show in town. Limited engagement. One night only.

He tilts his head (as far as he can anyway, damn straight jacket) and stares Wayne down. Unsettling pretty rich boy here would be good for a laugh. Not an ideal last laugh, but hey, he’ll take what he can get. The arrogant brat, he’ll make him sorry he came. He’ll show him this show’s not for the weak-hearted. He waits and waits until finally Wayne’s eyes catch his. And hold.

_Well, that’s interesting._ The intensity in the returned stare is not what he’d prepared for. Not what he’d expected. Not at all. Such hard eyes, eyes that didn’t match the fancy suit, the shiny hair. Eyes that were dark. Haunted. Familiar.

And here.

He looks over the frame again, taking it in more closely. Right height. Right weight. Right age. Right smug mouth.

And _here_. 

He feels a pull at the edges of his lips, muscles long unused twitching to life.

_Hello there, Bats._

The fog in his mind begins to lift. His lips crack and bleed as they stretch across his face. He smiles, wide and full. He smiles so hard it hurts. He can feel the guards at his side stiffen at the sight.

_It’s been a while, hasn’t it, boys?_ He turns his head to them; the look on their faces is all he ever wanted. Nervous. Unsettled. Terrified. _It’s good to be back._ In that moment, he feels like his old self again. Showing his teeth. Flashing his grin. It makes him feel alive.

_Oh, the irony._

The room is too quiet. He wishes he could make some noise, liven the place up. Flip a table. Shatter some glass. Send bits and pieces of medical instruments scattering across the floor. Click. Click. Click. He wishes he could scream but he can’t find his voice; it’s still lost in a foggy haze of drugs. He settles for a smile and watches the people cringe.

A static-y voice comes over the intercom.

“Anything you’d like to say?”

Ah, the obligatory question. Was there? Even if he could speak, he wasn’t sure he’d have an answer for them.

Was he sorry? Did he repent? Had he found Jesus?

_Nope._

He looks back out at the people behind the glass. He stares at his friend, the Batman, all shiny and polished and fake in his pressed three-button-suit. Hiding in plain sight.

The cane’s a nice touch.

“Well?” The warden’s pressing him for an answer.

Can’t leave them hanging. Gotta give them something.

They paid good money for those seats.

He opens his mouth and makes the first sound he’s made in three years.

He laughs.

He laughs because this is hysterical.

This is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

The Batman came to _say goodbye_. 

_Oh Bats, you old softy._ He hears his own laughter echo off the walls, bouncing back at him, filling up all the space in the room. A needle pricks his arm; it makes him laugh harder. Uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

Boy, does it feel good.

A sea of troubled faces look back at him through the glass, but he only has eyes for one. One annoying, precious, self-righteous face. He stares hard; his cheeks start to hurt, his cracked lips continue to bleed.

_Come on, Batman. Give me a smile. You can do it._

His laughing fit slows to a cough; it’s been a long time since he’d used his lungs this hard. They are all looking at him, waiting, looking as sick as he feels. He grins, leaning hard against his restraints, still coughing.

_Oh come on, Bats,_ he thinks, staring hard into those steady, unblinking eyes. _Just this once._

A chill crawls through his veins.

_I don’t have all night, you know._

He is starting to feel fuzzy; his head rolls heavy to his chest. There’s that silence again. It rings in his ears.

_That’s all, folks._

That’s when he hears it; a soft, awkward chuckle momentarily breaks the silence. The sound is gone almost as soon as it came. With effort, he picks up his head. The world’s fuzzier now, the sea of faces distorted and blurry. Through the haze, he catches the barest hint of a smirk on that arrogant face.

_That’s it._

He wishes he could move, just a little. Wishes he could bend, just at the waist.

Take a bow.

If wishes were horses, this would be a hell of a pony show.

Tied up, bound and drugged to death, he puffs up his lungs and laughs. It takes the last of his strength and it’s a weak, pitiful laughter, but it’ll do.

And he’s shaking. He can’t seem to stop shaking. He wants to think it’s the laughter but it’s probably the poison.

_Saved the good stuff for last, huh?_ he thinks, fading. _How thoughtful._

It’s quiet now, pin-drop quiet. No more laughter. No more mumblings from behind the glass. Everything’s far away; his vision grows dark, blurred at the edges by lingering tears of laughter.


End file.
